


The Richest Man In Town

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: It's A Wonderful Life AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1229545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Patrick Kane really hates Jonathan Toews. He hates his fucking equilibrium and the way he’s enjoying the Olympics, with easy smiles and earnest spectating. He hates the way he’s so fucking <i>wholesome</i>, eating fucking <i>apples</i> and oozing his captainly, Canadian goodness everywhere.</p><p>The worst of it all is that Jonny is so painfully, unutterably sincere about it all and it catches in Patrick’s throat and the worst of it all is that Patrick Kane doesn’t hate Jonathan Toews at all. </p><p>(Or, a story in which Patrick Kane wishes Jonathan Toews away.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Richest Man In Town

**Author's Note:**

> This is an _It's A Wonderful Life_ -style AU, in which Patrick Kane makes the rash decision of wishing that Jonathan Toews had never been born. The title is a quote from the movie.

Sometimes, Patrick Kane really hates Jonathan Toews. He hates his fucking equilibrium and the way he’s enjoying the Olympics, with easy smiles and earnest spectating. He hates the way he’s so fucking _wholesome_ , eating fucking _apples_ and oozing his captainly, Canadian goodness everywhere.

The worst of it all is that Jonny is so painfully, unutterably sincere about it all and it catches in Patrick’s throat and the worst of it all is that Patrick Kane doesn’t hate Jonathan Toews at all. 

.

Patrick’s back in Chicago before Jonny and Sharpy and Duncs. Of course he is, and he doesn’t even have a medal to show for it. It’s a long, grimy haul from Sochi to Newark and then he’s filing onto a connecting flight with the other boys from the Midwest. He’s not really with it when he says goodbye to his mom and sister, who both hug him a little too long. 

It helps, just a bit.

He goes for a run, before the crack of dawn, and jetlag’s a bitch but it’s his bitch. He’s going to own jetlag and then he’s going to own adult communication and then he’s going to own the goddamned Stanley Cup, again. Right now, Patrick’s ignoring his phone because he knows it’s going to be filling up with texts and voicemails from the boys and he’s not sure he’s ready for Shawsy’s brand of commiseration or Seabs’ stoic acceptance. 

Adult communication can come tomorrow. 

. 

The first skate back is like a fucking exhibition. They’re in New York and there are the six medal-winners and Jonny smiling all the while. Duncs unlatches from Seabs long enough for photographs and some BHTV segments and then it’s on. They’re skating again, together, and Patrick can almost believe that it’ll be okay. 

Of course, then they finish up practice with shootouts and Crow is on fire and Rants is keeping up with him and, right now, Patrick doesn’t much want to deal with accomplished, Finnish goalies. 

“You okay, buddy?” asks Sharpy, slinging his arm around Patrick’s neck. “Tazer says you’re not answering his texts.” He squeezes a little but that’s okay. Patrick doesn’t need to breathe or anything. 

“He sent about a thousand of them,” says Patrick. “There were _selfies_.”

“Hey,” says Sharpy. Another squeeze. “ _Hey_. You know how he gets about the Olympics. They go to his head.” 

Patrick grunts. When he looks up, Tazer’s nailing a shot just over Crow’s right shoulder. 

He knows he’ll get over it. He knows he can snap himself out of this funk. Right now, though, there’s a mean part of him that wishes he’d never met Tazer. 

It’s just that everyone’s looking at him and that’s not new, and the pity’s not new, and the disappointment’s not new but he’s never really felt like a failure before. He wants to stay back and practise shot after shot. He wants to drill them home until everyone’s saying _T.J. Who?_ but Sharpy’s clapping him on the shoulder and Shawsy’s hustling them both off the ice and it’s back to the hotel for their pre-game naps. 

“You know he’s not going to, like, rub it in,” says Sharpy, in a low voice, as they get off the bus. “He’s the last person who’s gonna do that. He just. Wants you to be happy. You know how he gets.”

Patrick knows exactly how Jonny gets and he’s _tired_ of it.

. 

He wakes up to his alarm blaring and his mouth tastes like dead things and it’s unexpectedly morning. He doesn’t really remember the night before. He remembers - 

_Kane with the penalty shot - he scores!_

He remembers - 

Jonny grinning, as though Patrick scoring compares to gold medals.

He remembers -

He sits up and waits for the headache to hit.

He’s surprised when it doesn’t. 

He thinks maybe he feels a bit better, though he could do with about ten hours more snooze.

.

Patrick is still half-asleep when he shuffles from hotel to bus to plane. He’s leaning against the window. 

“‘s Jonny here?” he mumbles.

“Yeah, he’s sitting with Krugs,” says Shawsy and, if he’s surprised that Patrick’s being man enough to ask about Tazer, well, he’s certainly showing it.

Hm. Maybe they’re bonding over face-offs or something. 

. 

Patrick’s one of the last off the plane and his moves through O’Hare are more zombie shuffle than Kaner shuffle but he gets to his car, waving vaguely at Saader who’s trying to get a crew together for the evening. 

He gets home. He showers. He Skypes with his sisters and there are no sympathetic or cautious smiles because his sisters are the best. 

He thinks maybe he’ll go out with the guys tonight. 

His phone’s been suspiciously silent. No motivational Tazer texts today so maybe Jonny’s got the message that Patrick needs a little space. It’d be a first, for sure. Jonny’s ridiculously tactile and has little to no concept of personal space, once his own boundaries have been established. 

Patrick scrolls through his inbox and it’s pretty weird because there’s nothing from Jonny. No string of old, unanswered texts, no gently chirping threads, nothing. He frowns and flicks to his contact list and scrolls down to Jonny T. 

Except Jonny T’s not there. 

Whatever. He’ll see Jonny later and steal his phone and he’ll call himself to get Jonny’s number back. No one will be any the wiser and Patrick won’t be the ungracious tool who apparently deleted Jonny’s existence from his phone.

.

He gets settled in at the bar and he’s a little early but not earlier than Shawsy and Saader and Leddy, who seemed to have developed an intense little bromance that would remind Patrick of him and Jonny, except not as good-looking. 

After a few beers, most of the team have arrived, with Jonny being a notable exception.

“Hey!” says Patrick, elbowing Shawsy in the ribs. “Hey! Is Jonny coming?”

“What’s your obsession with Jonny, man?” asks Shawsy, which is a question that Patrick’s never been asked before in his _life_ because it’s always been so self-fucking-evident. “He’s down there, communing with the D-men.”

Patrick’s heart lifts. It legitimately lifts in his chest and he looks along the table to see Seabs and Duncs chatting to Johnny O and - “Oh. Oh, no. I mean Jonny _T_.”

Shawsy frowns. “Johnny Tee?”

“Like Tavares?” asks Saader, uncertainly and kinda nonsensically. 

“Toews,” says Patrick. “Toews! The Captain! The serious one who smiles all the fucking time.” And honestly, Patrick’s kind of with Jonny on that one. Biggest misnomer in NHL history, right there. 

“Toews?” Shawsy’s expression is entirely blank.

“Hey, Sharpy! Kaner’s making up new captains. Guess he really _is_ bitter about the Olympics!” says Saader, the traitor. 

“Worst A _ever_ ,” says Sharpy, thumping Patrick on the chest. “Man-child, you want the job?”

Patrick’s just blinking at them, wondering if he’s being pranked and also, _ouch_. 

“Hey, _Phil_ ,” says Sharpy, looking somewhere over Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick twists and, okay, that’s fucking weird because Phil _Kessel_ just walked in and there’s a lot of broslapping and fistbumping going on. 

“Aren’t you gonna say hi to your _favourite_ teammate, Kaner?” asks Shawsy while Saader and Leddy make kissy-noises. 

“Ain’t nothing like Kane and Kessel,” says Phil. 

“‘cept you guys made Laz cry by not bringing your famed “Blackhawk magic” to the Sochi ice,” says Sharpy, air-quotes and all.

“Hey, bro. Best forward of the Games, right there,” says Phil. “That totally gets me a drink from the Captain, right?”

“Gold medal totally trumps it,” says Sharpy, grinning widely. “Get up to the fucking bar. You’re with me on this, Kaner, right?”

Patrick can’t breathe. He actually can’t breathe. “I. Uh. I think I need to go home. That last beer-”

“-was a gin and tonic,” says Saader.

“Therein lies the problem,” says Sharpy. “You don’t look too good, Kaner. You wanna-”

Patrick doesn’t stay to listen to what Sharpy has to suggest. He grabs his jacket and flees like a goddamned fire’s been lit under his ass. He flags down a cab in record time and manages to hold everything in till he gets home and upchucks in the kitchen sink. 

He scrabbles for his phone again and scrolls through every contact and there’s nothing in there that resembles Jonny’s name or even any alias Patrick’s ever given him. 

It’s only then that he realises that no one called him Peekaboo all night.

Patrick goes into his living room and stands there for a moment before catching sight of his laptop on the coffee table. He grabs it and opens it and Googles himself because he can’t go straight to Jonny. 

His Wikipedia page seems a good place to start and he scrolls down slowly until he gets to the description of his NHL career and the impact he had in his rookie year and the chemistry he had with sophomore Blackhawk, Phil Kessel, who was drafted third in 2006.

Patrick can’t even pretend that his hands aren’t trembling when he types in “Jonathan Toews” and he finds listings for artists and lawyers and dead Mennonites but nothing about Jonny. 

He reaches for his phone and does the only thing he can do. 

He calls his mom. 

“Honey?” His mom sounds pretty sleepy but Patrick guesses it’s pretty late. “Honey?” 

Oh, he should probably say something. 

“Uhm. Mom. I think I did something stupid,” he says. 

“Oh, _Patrick_ ,” she says and he wonders what she expects him to say, except now that he’s got her undivided attention, he can’t go on. 

“Take a deep breath,” she says. “Start from the beginning.”

“I think maybe it’s a bad dream,” he says and he feels so fucking tired. “Like, all I do is make mistakes and now Jonny’s not even here to say something dumb to make me feel better.”

There’s a delicate pause. “Who’s Jonny, dear?”

.

So, sniffling manfully to sleep isn’t his finest hour but Patrick’s so fucking drained, he can’t even feel ashamed. Maybe he was lying a little when he said that he was mentally okay but his parents didn’t raise any fools (except him, a little). He’s certainly not going to tell a reporter that 2014 has sucked more balls than the previous twenty-five years put together. 

It’s possible his mother thinks he’s lost it entirely but that was nothing compared to his realisation that the Blackhawks aren’t defending Stanley Cup champions. 

That was nothing compared to his realisation that he may have wished Jonny away.

.

When he wakes up, he’s still on the couch and someone is shaking him awake. 

“Peeks. Peekaboo. Peeeksy. Wake up.” 

“Why the fuck was he sleeping on the couch-?”

Patrick forces his eyes open and Sharpy and Jonny are standing over him.

“You okay, Peeks? Your mom called. Said you were really weird on the phone last night?” 

“Jonny,” breathes Patrick and he’s never been so glad to see Jonny’s face, even if he’s not smiling right now in that weird, open-mouthed _happy_ way that he has. 

“I’m just gonna call Donna and tell her you’re okay,” says Jonny. 

“Yeah, no,” says Patrick and he tugs Jonny down onto the couch and wraps his arms and his legs around him. “I’m sorry. I’m a fucking tool.”

Jonny’s arms come around him and Patrick supposes there’s some weird Canadian mind-reading going on because Sharpy clears his throat and says, “How about _I_ call Donna and get the coffee started?”

“Good work, Sharpy,” says Jonny, a bit vaguely, and he squeezes Patrick tighter. 

Patrick pulls back enough to clasp Jonny’s stupid face, maybe a bit tightly, to judge from the way Jonny grunts and the way his eyes widen. He kisses him, hard and quick, and it’s another stolen moment that he sure as fuck won’t wish away, not while Johnny’s touching his own lips which are stretching into a smile (that smile; that perfect fucking smile). 

“Your mom said you were looking for me, last night,” Jonny says, softly. “She said you were upset. I wasn’t sure if you were mad at me?” 

Patrick shakes his head. And then he nods his head. “I really fucking was but I’m not now.” He kind of wants to kiss Jonny again. Maybe he will. 

It’s only after the third kiss merges into the fourth that Patrick leans back and says, solemnly, “Oh, that stuff about Kessel? I take it back. You’re definitely the best player I’ve ever played with.”

He can hear Sharpy’s _hey!_ of protest from the kitchen, even over Jonny’s surprised laugh and it’s okay. 

“You alright there, Kaner?” asks Jonny, after a long moment of looking at Patrick’s lips.

“I will be,” says Patrick, brightly. “I will be.”


End file.
